The Pearl Brooch

by Logan, Katherine Lowry

  Like Watin, she needed a moment to recover from their conversation. Finally, she reached for the crutches and stood on her good leg. It was time for her to take charge. After all, it was her studio.

  “I need all the natural light possible, but the panel on the far window needs to stay,” she said.

  “It would work with the mademoiselles’ white linen dresses and straw hats.”

  “How’d you know about the white dresses?”

  “Mademoiselle Polly mentioned it when I arrived. She wanted to know if I had her hat.” Watin held his elbow in his palm while his finger tapped his cheek. “Mademoiselle Patsy is musically talented, poised, and particular.”

  “How do you know so much about the family?” Sophia asked.

  “The ambassador and his daughters are well known in the salons of Paris.”

  “Oh.” Although Sophia wanted to paint a natural portrait, she’d better stick with a traditional pose, or the painting might end up on a trash heap. “I see four items to work with: the open door to the garden, the green drapery panel, the upholstered walnut bergère chair, and the fortepiano with the crystal flower vase. I don’t know yet if I’ll include the white boiserie with the flowery wallpaper inserts. For Polly’s portrait, I’m still thinking, but I’m leaning more toward a less formal setting.”

  “The garden, perhaps?” Watin asked.

  The clack of boots against the hardwood floor announced Jefferson’s return. She looked back over her shoulder. His expression was stern, the stack of sketches cradled in his right elbow. Obviously, he was on a mission, but a mission for what?

  “I thought you went out,” she said.

  “William reminded me of a letter that needed to post today.” He handed her the drawings. “Since you spent so much time drawing these, you might want to refer to them, but I expect you to give them back.”

  The constant flipping through the pages had smudged several of them, but they were only ideas to consider, not sketches to paint. “I’ll be sure to return them without additional smudges.”

  Jefferson’s eyebrow flashed at her before he turned his attention to Watin. “Allow me to show you out, sir.”

  “Oh, don’t leave yet,” she said to Watin, lightly touching his arm. “I need you to help me set up the easels.”

  Watin made a sweeping bow. “I am your most obedient servant, mademoiselle.”

  “As you wish,” Jefferson said with a distinct tone of disapproval. He turned on his heel and strode from the room for the second time.

  “Be careful out there,” Sophia said to his back, then shrugged when he didn’t respond.

  Watin pointed at her sketches. “May I see those?” She placed them on the fortepiano, and he carefully turned each one, studying them closely. “Do you intend to paint all of these?”

  “No. They’re my five-minute sketches. When I’m not working on a painting, I’ll go to a park or market and spend a couple of hours sketching. Half of those I did in Ambassador Jefferson’s cabinet two days ago. The others are sketches of the girls I did last night.”

  He tapped his index finger on a sketch of Jefferson. “You can’t paint this one. You’ll breach propriety. It’s a well-established fact that the only people who smile, in life and in art, are the poor, the lewd, the drunk, the innocent, and actors.”

  She laughed, pressing her fingers to her mouth. “So nature gave us lips to conceal our teeth and no one is supposed to smile? Seriously?”

  Then she pointed to a sketch of the girls. “Look at the love and joy in their faces. What’s wrong with showing such happiness?”

  “Nothing is wrong with expressing love and joy, but not in a portrait. Portraits represent an ideal. They’re crucial to preserving a person’s visage. Portraits aren’t to capture a moment”—he tapped his finger on Jefferson’s sketch again—“like these. Portraits have permanence. If you paint the ambassador like this, you’ll commit a permanent faux pas.”

  She knew Watin was speaking the truth, at least the eighteenth-century version of it, and Jefferson wouldn’t approve of a smiling portrait anyway, but what about the girls? “You’ve given me something to think about. Now let’s sit over here and settle our business. Do you have an invoice?”

  As they were concluding, Polly and Patsy entered the studio. “This is so exciting,” Patsy said. “Who are you going to paint first, mademoiselle?”

  She glanced at the two smiling faces and knew she couldn’t disappoint either one of them. “Well,” Sophia said. “The first painting should be with both of you, perhaps in the garden. What do you think?”

  The girls beamed. “Let’s go outside and look around,” Polly said.

  As they hurried through the open doorway out into the garden, Watin asked, “Are you going to paint them sitting or standing?”

  “There’s a bench under the tree. One could sit on the bench and the other on the grass in front.”

  When a servant brought in another easel, Watin directed him to the garden. Sophia crutched to the door and watched while he positioned the easel, first in one location, then he moved it to another, checking the angle of the sun. She eased down the steps and hobbled over to him.

  “You’ll have the best light all day if you place the easel here.” Watin waved to Patsy and Polly. “Come. Sit over here and let’s see if this will work. You won’t have the sun in your eyes, and neither will Mademoiselle Orsini.” He positioned Patsy first, then placed Polly behind her with her hand on Patsy’s shoulder. He turned to look at Sophia. “What do you think?”

  “It’s too formal. I want to see them more relaxed. Patsy, you sit on the bench and Polly, you sit on the grass and rest your hands together on Patsy’s leg. Let’s see how that looks.” She turned to ask Watin what he thought, but he was gone.

  Polly sat on the grass. “What about our white dresses?”

  “Marguerite went to the market to get the fabric. First I’ll sketch you on the canvas, but if I finish and the dresses aren’t ready, I’ll do individual drawings inside.”

  Watin returned carrying a canvas, and two workmen hauled out a chair and a stool. Watin directed the chair to be placed in front of the easel and the stool at an angle to support her leg. Satisfied with the placement, he set the canvas attached to a stretcher on the easel.

  Sophia flicked her finger against the canvas, listening closely to the sound. “Good tension. Nice and taut with a smooth, fine-woven texture.”

  “This is so much fun,” Polly said. “Do you want us to tell more stories?”

  “I love your stories, sweetie. You can talk all you want, but once I place you, you can’t move. We’ll mark your places so when you take breaks, you’ll be able to return to the exact spot.”

  “How else can I help you?” Watin’s smile reached his eyes, matching the warmth of his voice.

  “I was going to ask you to mix paint, but I don’t need it yet. Would you have time to come by tomorrow?”

  “I’ll endeavor to be the best assistant you could possibly find.”

  “You have a business to run, but I will need help mixing paint.”

  “I’ll see my customers early in the morning, then I’ll come here. For now, while you sketch, I’ll organize your studio.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Léopold, how’d I get so lucky to find you?”

  “Monsieur David found you, and I lost you in the crowd.” Watin pressed his hand against his chest. “But now here we are together.”

  An hour later she gave Polly and Patsy a break, and Mr. Petit came out to the garden leading servants carrying a tray with food and wine and a bucket of ice.

  “I thought you and Monsieur Watin would appreciate refreshments,” Mr. Petit said.

  “Thank you. My knee is starting to throb.” She smiled at Mr. Petit. “If I plan my time carefully, I’ll be able to paint your portrait too.”

  “I’m honored. But Ambassador Jefferson would not approve of neglecting my duties to sit for you.”

  She pursed her lips. “
Hmm. You’re a valuable employee. If Mr. Jefferson doesn’t return to Paris, he’ll want you to come to America and manage Monticello. So we must have a sketch or a portrait of you.”

  Mr. Petit smiled, as if to placate her. “I’ll station one of the servants nearby in the event you require anything else.”

  Watin had been inside during her conversation with Petit, and now he returned to the garden. “I’ve organized the paints, brushes, and sketching paper. Everything is within easy reach.”

  “Mr. Petit brought out refreshments. Are you ready for a glass of wine with some fruit and cheese?”

  He glanced at the table next to the bench. “I don’t believe I’ve worked hard enough for such a splendid reward.”

  “Mr. Petit takes good care of me.” She crutched over to the bench, and while Watin poured wine, she stretched out her leg and wrapped her knee in ice.

  “Why are you putting ice on your knee?”

  She leaned back against the tree and squirmed until she found a comfortable position. “Blood flow to an injured area causes swelling. When you apply ice, it decreases blood flow and you have less swelling.”

  After examining her with a puzzled expression, he scratched the back of his head. “Another idea to go in the soup pot with smiling portrait subjects.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. Ice really works, and smiling portraits will be popular one day.”

  He handed her a glass of wine and a plate of cheese and bread. “Not in this century, mademoiselle.”

  She gave a resigned laugh. “You’re probably right.”

  Sophia was sipping wine when the girls returned. “May we see what you’ve done so far?” Patsy asked.

  “You know the rule. You can look, but you can’t comment on it yet.”

  “We promise,” Polly said.

  The girls stood at the easel and whispered to each other while Watin and Sophia talked about the Paris salon and the artists who were currently exhibiting.

  “Hi, Papa.” Polly waved. “Come see Mademoiselle Orsini’s sketch of us.”

  Sophia’s head shot up and her eyes met Jefferson’s. If looks could kill… She struggled for a moment, wondering what to do, then offered him a sweet smile. He didn’t smile back. Instead, he wheeled and closed the doors.

  “What’s wrong with Papa?” Polly’s expression was pinched.

  Sophia set her glass aside and reached for her crutches. “He must have had a difficult meeting. I’ll go see what’s wrong.”

  Watin set his wine glass down too and folded her hand between his. “Mademoiselle, it is best to wait until I’m gone. Votre ambassadeur est jaloux.”

  “How ridiculous.”

  “When Madame Cosway was in Paris, the ambassador spent an unusual amount of time with her, but she was married to a coxcomb of a husband who bounced around the ballrooms, ogling ladies and flattering gentlemen who might give him commissions. You, my dear, are much like her, but without a husband. I am asking you again, please let me find other Americans to host you.”

  She shook her head. “There’s nothing to worry about. My interest in the ambassador is strictly artistic.” She couldn’t tell Watin about Jefferson’s affair with Sally, and, as charming as Jefferson was, she couldn’t condone his behavior or exonerate him from abusing his power over a young girl with limited options.

  “Remember, I’ll only be here another week or so. Besides, the ambassador has a lot on his mind, and a painter is of little consequence.”

  Watin raised her hand and lightly touched her knuckles with his lips. “Until tomorrow, mademoiselle. But if you change your mind—”

  “I won’t,” she said, “but thank you for your concern.”

  Watin reentered the house, and she kept her gaze on the empty doorway, hoping Jefferson would return, yet knowing he wouldn’t. As tempted as she was to go to his cabinet, she couldn’t. William would be there to discuss the meeting and write a report while Jefferson dictated. It wasn’t her place. It wasn’t her job. It wasn’t even her time.

  A thought emerged from the welter of emotions. Regardless of what she said to Watin, she didn’t need a romantic dinner to study her subject. She already knew enough about Jefferson to paint his portrait.

  A cold gust blew across her heart. If there had been any doubt before, she now knew where this had to end.

  19

  Richmond, VA—Pete

  Pete parked his rental car in the Virginia Commonwealth University Hospital parking lot and made his way toward the entrance. Just before he reached the door his phone beeped with a What’s App message. All the eighteen-and-above members of the MacKlenna Clan were connected through the app, so news blasts arrived on everyone’s device at the same time. Out of thirty-eight local time zones in use worldwide, members of the clan could be in half a dozen on any given day.

  A message from Kevin read: Lawrence’s lungs collapsed. Procedure ongoing. JL fainted. She’s anemic. Needed a blood transfusion. She’s in her room. Meredith with her now. Elliott and I are in the NICU.

  “Jesus.” Pete tapped in a status report: Just arrived at hospital. Going to see JL.

  He followed the signs to the Birthing Center, and when he reached JL’s room, he found Meredith massaging JL’s feet. He squeezed Meredith’s shoulder in a hello gesture. Since she was also at Charlotte’s house for breakfast, they’d already shared the latest news from the Tuscany vineyards.

  When JL laid eyes on him, she reached out, crying, “I’m so glad you’re here.” He wrapped her in a bone-crushing hug, stepped back, and thumbed away a tear on her cheek.

  “Where else would I be, ragazza tosta?”

  “I’m not such a tough chick right now. Lawrence had a crisis and I passed out.”

  “Whoa. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You were in a plane crash, had emergency surgery, a blood transfusion, and your son is fighting for his life. You’re handling it better than I would.”

  “Better than I would, too,” Meredith said.

  “So says the woman who went through chemo while pregnant. And, on top of that, lived with Elliott when he gave up pain pills and whisky. From what I hear, the second one was the toughest part of your ordeal,” JL said.

  “You make it sound a lot worse than it was. He had his bad moments, but he was, even then, sweet enough to fall in love with.”

  “My boys have no hope,” JL said. “Kevin and I have mixed a Scottish temper with an Irish one.”

  Meredith covered JL’s feet, chuckling, and put the lotion on the counter. “I’ve never seen O’Gradys act out the same way I’ve seen MacKlennas and Frasers misbehave. Let’s hope Blane and Lawrence are more Irish than Scottish.”

  “I’m glad I’m just a good ol’ Italian boy,” Pete said.

  “I am, too. You, Maria, Isabella, and Gabe have been welcome additions to the clan. We could use a few more.” Meredith picked up her phone and purse. “If you’ll stay with JL for a while, I’m going down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. I’ve asked for more pods for the coffee maker, but they haven’t brought them up yet. Can I get you anything?”

  “I’m coffee’d out. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  As soon as the door closed behind Meredith, Pete pulled a recliner closer to the bed, sat, and lifted the leg rest. Another What’s App message came in. He read it quickly, smiled, and read it to JL. Tube inserted into Lawrence’s chest. Suction removing air. Will continue until all extra air removed. Crisis averted.

  Relief welled up in Pete’s heart, but he tried not to let it show. His family went through a preemie birth with a cousin a few years back, and it hadn’t ended well. He never mentioned it to JL. The birth coincided with the discovery of JL’s first husband’s infidelities, so it would have been piling on, and he’d never do that to her. Which was why he didn’t plan to tell her about Sophia and her brooch.

  “I just told Meredith I wasn’t going anywhere, but I’ll take you to the NICU if you want to go.”

  JL shook her head and turned slightl
y so she could see him better. “I passed out earlier. As soon as I came to, Kevin brought me down here. He’ll need to rest soon. When he comes back, I’ll go up there. Lawrence has two valiant knights guarding him right now.”

  “As patient advocates go, Elliott is a formidable one. He’ll bulldoze his way through the hospital to get Lawrence everything he needs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to advocate for a larger hospital to treat Lawrence. Cincinnati Children’s Hospital has a phenomenal reputation, plus it’s close to Lexington.”

  “How do you know?”

  “What? About Children’s Hospital or Elliott?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  Pete didn’t say anything, but when the silence became uncomfortable, he yielded. “Just information I picked up along the way. As for Elliott”—Pete winked—“he’ll want another wing in another hospital with his name on it.”

  “He doesn’t care about a hospital wing in his name. He just wants the best treatment money can buy. It’s his way of controlling the situation.”

  “Okay, but don’t let him take control away from you. Kevin won’t disagree with him, so you have to do what’s best for you and your sons.”

  “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

  “We partnered for a decade, JL. And, I’ve known you since you started growing boobs. I know how your mind works. You don’t handle sickness and medical emergencies well. You might relinquish control over Lawrence’s medical care because you’re so afraid he’ll die. Then you’ll wake up and won’t like what’s going on, but by then it will be so far out of your control you can’t get it back. I don’t want that to happen.”

  She pressed her fingertips against her temples, then pressed harder, clenching her jaw, then dropped her hands. “I don’t either.”

  “Then stop thinking you’re weak and can’t make medical decisions. You’re my ragazza tosta, and don’t you forget it. And don’t ask for the medical version for dummies either. Since you can figure out complex investigations, this should be a walk in the park. Stay on top of this, or Elliott will run over you.”